


morning dew & climate change

by myvoidedeyes



Series: (we are) lost boys [4]
Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Found Family, Happy Ending, Hemlock Grove - Freeform, M/M, Romancek, Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 08:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15530082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myvoidedeyes/pseuds/myvoidedeyes
Summary: his sheets smelled like the earth and cigarettes. they smelled like home.





	morning dew & climate change

It felt unnaturally natural to watch Peter play with his daughter, to watch as he allowed her to climb his body, attempting to balance with chubby fists clutching the lapels of his shirt. To watch the easy smile that spread across that face, hands neatly juggling her squirming body, as she tries, unsuccessfully, for grace.

            Maybe, maybe he would have been jealous, once. But that smile, that smile belonged to him too, made him think of quiet mornings and calloused fingers; of snowy parks and soft baby giggles; of late nights and hard kisses, that metallic taste still splayed across his tongue. It made him think of home.

            He’d never had a home before, growing up in a mausoleum, only to buy himself a crypt. Had never had a home until he’d heard Peter laugh, sat close enough that he didn’t know where he ended and the other began. Never had a home until they’d kissed, until there was a person, not another ghost, walking the halls of his fucking cage. Until there was coffee already made in the mornings, a meal frying and a baby balanced on a hip. Until he’d realized that family had nothing to do with goddamn blood- and how ironic was that?

            So he got to sit on his couch, tablet ignored in his lap, and watch soft foam blocks being levitated out of those rough, worn hands, once climbing has become tedious, stacked higher and higher, listening to the long, rambling, commentary that Peter provided- not for either of them, but for her –asking questions he answered himself. Got to feel warm at the anomalous concentration marking her face, instead of the cold emptiness that had once accompanied her presence.

            It still felt so fragile, so breakable: a reality drawn in china, suspended on strings of saliva. And it was the best damn thing he’d ever had. He knew from experience that this kind of miracle couldn’t last. Hadn’t the last time, either.

            But, on the days where he felt hopeful, high on the happiness, this- them –felt ironclad. Felt like stubborn eyes and regrets never to be repeated. Like fate had decided to let them from its strangling hold, to give them one good thing in the face of every-fucking-thing else. Like the marks on his chest were forever and neither of them were ever letting go.

            It was on days like that very one, where whatever bullshit was waiting for him at work, waiting over the morrow, didn’t matter, because he had a home.

            And that wasn’t going anywhere.


End file.
